


Go out in a blaze of glory and light

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law (TV)
Genre: Gallows Humor, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Pre-Slash, Predictions of death, Semi-linear storytelling, Some Swearing, Suicide, Talk of Suicide, talk of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: Travis has known since he was nine years old that he’s going to die in an explosion.





	Go out in a blaze of glory and light

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 05.16.17.
> 
>  
> 
> [strong]NOT A HAPPY FIC!!! If the warnings above didn’t tell you that, this is your FINAL CHANCE to turn back.[/strong]

_“It’s not the end that I fear with each breath_  
_It’s life that scares me to death.”_  
_—Rise Against, “Rumors Of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated”_

\---

Travis has known since he was nine years old that he’s going to die in an explosion.

It’s not possible now, of course, with all the laws and regulations that have been put in place. Children aren’t allowed to get told so early—the test can be done, but it’s put in their medical file until they’re sixteen (in some states, even later than that). But back then, when the machines first came out, no one cared. Anyone who paid could get the test.

Back then, no one realized just what a bit of forewarning would do to the world.

Travis went with two of his foster siblings; Kaitlyn, who was the only one who could drive, and Derrick, who slept in the bunk below Travis’s. They all piled into their foster mom’s silver hatchback and drove to the mall, where a line stretched almost to the parking lot. There was a big banner above the doors, proclaiming “Machine of Death! Find out how you die!”

A lot of people standing in line were laughing and goofing around, treating it like a big joke. A lot of people going past were looking shaken and uncertain, or, in rare cases, calm, at peace.

The line went quickly; it wasn’t a long test. The machine itself was nothing special, a silver-grey box with a few blinking lights and a hole in the center, just big enough to fit someone’s finger. It looked like something out of Star Trek. Derrick went first, then Kaitlyn, and then it was Travis’s turn.

He didn’t hesitate, stuck his finger right in the hole. There was a tiny prick of a needle, then the cool swipe of an antibacterial wipe. When Travis took his hand back, he couldn’t even see the wound in the pad of his finger.

There was a soft whir, and the lights on the front of the machine flashed, and then a little slip of cardstock spat out the side. The attendant handed the card over, wished them a good day in a bored tone, and turned to the next person in line.

“Do you need any help reading it?” Kaitlyn asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“Lemme try,” Travis scrunched his forehead in concentration, sounding out the letters. “E…ex…plo…”

Derrick, who had little patience, snatched the card out of Travis’s hands and read, “Explosion. You’re gonna go boom, T.”

Kaitlyn grabbed the card back, returned it to Travis, and scolded Derrick. Travis didn’t listen, staring at the neat black letters on the little card.

Travis, who was nine years old and thought things that went boom were the coolest thing in the world, grinned to himself.

“Awesome.”

\---

No one believed it at first. It was like something out of a tabloid. “The Machine of Death! Predict how you’ll die! Just one drop of blood!” Everyone treated it like a joke.

Then people died, as people were wont to do. And in every single case, the cause of death could be traced to the prediction made by the Machine. Sometimes the prediction was obvious; sometimes it was oblique, the words’ meanings twisted, and it took some working to figure out how the prediction fit. But _every. single. time_ it was proven.

(One of the most definitive cases was Mr. Riley McGough, who died of apparent anaphylaxis caused by a severe peanut allergy. The Machine’s prediction simply said MARGARET, which caused the investigating officer to look a little closer at the case. Three days later, he arrested Riley McGough’s ex-girlfriend. That changed the entire way homicide was investigated, and put definite credibility in the Machine.)

Once people realized how accurate the Machine was, the entire world changed. Religions formed, claiming it was a sign of God, of fate, of destiny. Anti-Machine protest groups grew; the most fanatic would bomb the Machines, not caring about the innocent lives lost—they were labeled domestic terrorists and hunted to the fullest extent of the law. Companies spent billions trying to figure out how the Machine could do what it did, to no avail. The Machine could be replicated, but it couldn’t be explained.

Within five years, it was in every hospital and doctor’s office, booths in every mall and supermarket. Most businesses required a test to get employed, and laws were made to regulate who could take the test, prohibiting minors or people with certain mental instabilities who may react poorly to this sort of thing.

In just a few years, the entire world had changed.

People weren’t stupid. Before the Machine came along, everyone knew they would die. It was one of the immutable laws of physics. But the Machine told them exactly how that end was coming, so everyone started seeing death around every corner.

There’s a big difference between know you’re _going_ to die and know _how_ you’re going to die.

\---

People react in different ways to the Machine’s predictions. Some people become reckless, putting their lives on the line, except not really because they know they won’t die—at least not like _that_. Some people go on living their lives as normal; if they’re going to die anyway, knowing doesn’t change anything. Some people find religion.

And some people, like their latest victim, become terrified, paranoid, refuse to leave their homes. According to neighbors, Madison Fowley hadn’t been seen outside in over ten years. It hadn’t saved her.

The tree had crashed through the roof, a branch going right through her heart as she slept. It seems obvious it was a natural occurrence, a windstorm, perhaps, or maybe even tree rot, but they still had to check it out. Someone could have engineered this ‘accident’, found out what Fowley’s manner of death was and set it in motion. It happened, sometimes, so called mercy killings.

Travis stands in the doorway, purses his lips, and says, “I’m gonna go with LIMB.”

Wes shoves past him, rolling his eyes. “You’re sick in the head. You know that?”

“All in fun, baby,” Travis grins. “What do you think?”

“I refuse to play this sick game,” Wes snaps with a shake of his head.

It’s not a game with taste, guessing what a person’s card will say before they find it or before the crime scene guys do the test on their own. It’s gallows humor, and cops are particularly good at it.

“Nah,” one of the photographers says. “That’s too easy. It’s gonna be like, IMPALED or STAKED or something.”

“That’s two guesses, but sure, I’ll go with it.” Travis points to a uniform hovering on the sidelines. “How ‘bout you, new guy? What do you guess?”

The kid hesitates, new enough to clearly be uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, but wanting to participate so he doesn’t seem squeamish in front of the more-seasoned officers. “Uh,” he stammers, shifting, “I don’t know. TREE, maybe.”

“Too easy,” Travis scoffs. “Wes, what do you think?”

Wes shoots him a baleful look. That, Travis knows from experience, won’t stop him. Sure enough, a minute later Wes grumbles, “TIMBER,” and continues going over the scene.

Five minutes later, they find Madison Fowley’s card, neat black letters spelling TIMBER across the cardstock. The new guy stares at Wes, eyes wide.

“It’s ‘cuz Wes is twisted,” Travis says cheerfully. “He’s got the same sick sense of humor as the Machine.”

Wes just flips him off and doesn’t dignify that with a response.

\---

Derrick’s card said HEART ATTACK. “That means I’m gonna grow old,” he boasted, shoving the card in his pocket. “Young people don’t get heart attacks.” It seemed like sound logic to Travis, though Kaitlyn frowned.

A year later, Derrick was dead, an overdose of heroin tearing his heart apart before the EMTs could get to him.

\---

Travis has about five seconds to think, _This is probably a very bad idea_ , and then he tackles the fleeing suspect into the street and right into the path of an oncoming car. He hears a high-pitched squeal and the blare of a horn, and then the car hits him and he passes out a little bit.

He wakes in the hospital with a broken leg, a concussion, and Wes looming over him, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. “Are you an idiot?” his partner demands, which is his sarcasm-laden way of worrying. “Were you dropped on your head as a child? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

Due to the concussion, they haven’t given him the _really_ good drugs, which sucks. “It’s all good, man. Hey, you think if I smile nice charmingly enough the nurse will up my pain meds?”

“You deserve all the pain you feel,” Wes snaps, practically vibrating beside Travis’s hospital bed. “What the _hell_ made you think leaping in front of a car was a grand idea?”

“I didn’t die,” Travis points out, in case this wasn’t obvious. “I couldn’t. So it was fine.”

“You could have been paralyzed,” Wes retorts, quick as a whip. “You could have cracked your skull open. You could have killed the _suspect_. You can’t just run in front of cars, Travis!”

Travis grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut. “Maybe I’m gonna die when my head explodes from your yelling,” he groans, flapping a hand. “Maybe that’s my explosion. Go get the nurse, willya?” 

For a second he thinks Wes is going to start shouting again, but then he stomps off and Travis lets out a breath and waits for the nurse to arrive with some decent painkillers.

\---

The word ‘ _reckless’_ is used in his personnel file seventeen times. Travis knows. (He totally had Kendall hack into it so he could read it, shh, don’t tell.) The phrase _‘hero complex’_ is used at least six times, and Travis counted eight uses of the word _‘deathwish’_ before Kendall hissed, “Shit, someone is coming!” and shut it all down.

It’s not like that, though, not really. As much as he expounds on the totally amazing way he’s going to die, he’s not _looking_ to run into an explosion the first chance he gets.

But that’s the thing. He _knows_ how he’s gonna go, which means there’s nothing holding him back from running into that burning building or crashing his car headlong into another to stop a fleeing suspect. So long as the engine or the furnace or whatever doesn’t explode, he’s at no risk. He might need to recuperate a bit, but he’ll be fine.

And really, the odds of an explosion happening like _that_ are so slim it’s not even funny. He’s more likely to get blown up by some asshole wearing a pipe bomb, in his line of work.

Is he reckless? Sure, when there’s no reason not to be. He’s never raced headlong into a trap unless he _knows_ there’s not a bomb behind the door.

Hero complex? Well, sure, maybe. Explosions are a pretty awesome way to go, and if he can go out _saving_ someone, well then…

But deathwish?

Nah.

\---

To become a cop, you have to get the test taken, whether you’ve had it done before or not. Most companies require it, for insurance or something; companies have to pay more if you die from OVERTIME or WORKPLACE ACCIDENT than, say, DROWNING (unless you work on a fishing boat). At the LAPD, the results of your test go into the medical history of your personnel file, to be seen by your superior and the department shrinks.

Whether you tell anyone yourself is your own prerogative.

Travis will tell anyone who will listen, and to people who won’t. He’ll happily, unprompted, tell anyone and everyone about the sheer _awesomeness_ of going out in an explosion, because Travis may have grown up, but inside he is still a nine-year-old boy who thinks explosions are the coolest thing in the world.

“I want it to happen while I’m saving someone,” he’ll say, because there is no one who hasn’t imagined their death and Travis has thought about it a lot. “Like, I don’t want it to happen because my water heater explodes, you know? I want to go out in a blaze of glory and light, saving innocents.” He’ll always pause here, then add, “Or a fiery explosion at the end of a car chase, that’d be cool too.”

Paekman never waxed poetic about his death the way Travis did, but he’d never hold back if asked. “Sure I’ve imagined it,” he’d say with a shrug, “but BETRAYAL is so vague, it’s easier to come up with things it’s not, you know?”

(As it turns out, BETRAYAL looks like a bullet in the back in an empty parking lot.)

Wes only talked voluntarily about his death once, after Paekman’s funeral. They were still in their dark mourning suits, ties and shoes scattered on the floor. Two beers became four became the gentle, numb haze of inebriation.

“I’m gonna die alone,” Wes slurred, caught in that place where alcohol transformed into unvarnished honesty. “I’m gonna be alone in my head and them I’m gonna die.”

For a second Travis didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. He didn’t know the words. Instead he reached over, slung an arm around Wes’s shoulders and pulled him close. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.

\---

Kaitlyn’s card said JEROME. Travis asked what that was, and she said it was a name. Wide-eyed, Travis said, “Then you won’t go near people named Jerome, right?”

She smiled and said, “Of course not.”

Travis was a rookie, fresh out of the Academy, the last time he saw her. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, not since he’d started high school and she moved off to Kansas or North Carolina or something. Travis hadn’t even known she’d come back to LA until he got the invitation to her funeral.

As soon as he saw the gilded invitation, he used his connections to look up her case in the LAPD files. A simple mugging-gone-wrong, a punk kid who got jumpy and stabbed her and left her to die. The kid’s name was Jerome Winters.

It wasn’t fair, he thought later, staring down into the open casket. She was still so young, still had her entire life in front of her, and it was all taken away in an instant. “Thought you were gonna stay away from guys named Jerome,” he murmured, reaching down to brush his fingertips over the back of her folded hands.

He was half-joking. There was no way she could have avoided every Jerry or Jerome in the world, and she had no way of knowing the kid grabbing her purse would be the one that would kill her. Even if she’d stayed locked in her home for the rest of her life, it wouldn’t have saved her forever.

He already knew by then there was no avoiding your fate. 

\---

He doesn’t know where he is, at first, just that it’s dark and he feels kind of like he’s floating. For about half a minute, he wonders if he kicked the bucket and this is what death is like, which kind of pisses him off because he doesn’t remember anything, did he really die and miss his own damn explosion?

Then he hears a familiar, steady _beep—beep—beep_ , and it’s a sound he realizes he’s been hearing since he woke up, but it only just now filtered into his brain. He relaxes. Things can’t be too bad then, if he’s in the hospital. It also explains the floaty feeling, which he now recognizes as the good stuff, where pain is a distant dream and everything is wonderful and made of clouds.

He’s in the hospital. Which means—and Travis finds himself turning his head, looking for Wes before he even realizes what he’s doing. His partner is sitting beside the hospital bed, arms crossed over his chest, chin down on his collarbone, and Travis feels a fond smile cross his face. That’s one thing he can always count on, Wes being there whenever Travis wakes up.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers, because the floaty, fluttery feelings running through his chest deserve _some_ kind of acknowledgement.

He didn’t say it loud enough to wake Wes up—hell, he’s not sure he said it loud enough to be _heard_ —but Wes’s head snaps up, eyes zeroing in on Travis, and it’s funny, Travis has heard every possible joke there is about Wes the Ice King, but his eyes are blazing right now.

He gives Wes a soppy grin and manages to wiggle two fingers. “Hey, baby,” he repeats, pleased as punch Wes is _here_.

Wes glares at him, eyes burning like the corona on the sun, and he leans forward and looms, which Travis didn’t even know people could _do_ when they were sitting down. “What,” Wes says, voice tight and clipped and shaking a little bit, “did you think you were doing?”

“S’okay,” he slurs, giving his partner a dopey grin. “ ‘m fine.”

“You are _not_ fine, Travis!” Wes hisses, spots of color bright on his cheek. “You can’t just—do you know what could have happened? If we hadn’t found the antidote in time, your face would have melted off!”

Travis is hoping that’s an exaggeration.

“S’okay,” he repeats, gathering up enough energy to wave his hand once, dismissively, before it flops back to the bed. “Not my time. Gonna go boom. S’gonna be _awesome_.”

Wes slumps, some of the anger leeching out of him, and he drops his head into his hands. “Oh my god,” and he doesn’t sound pissed, but his voice is still shaking, a little bit, so Travis isn’t entirely sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I hate you,” he exclaims, loudly and vehemently. “I hate you so fucking much.”

But Travis knows that’s just Wes’s way of saying he cares, so he reaches out, clumsily pats his partner’s knee. “S’okay,” he mumbles, letting his eyes droop shut. His hand stays where it is, because it’s too much an effort to bring it back up on the bed. “S’all okay.” 

Right before he nods off, he feels long, slender fingers wrap around his own, and it doesn’t even seem strange that Wes is holding his hand so tightly. 

\---

Six and a half months before Paekman is killed, Travis learns how Wes is going to die for the very first time.

Alex calls him one night, asks him to check on Wes. Travis asks why; he knows Wes has been quiet lately, withdrawn, but he hasn’t said anything. Alex sighs, soft and sad, and says, “We got divorced,” and “It was coming for a long time now,” and “Will you please go check on him?”

“Sure,” Travis says, “but why?” because Wes is a big boy and yeah, he’ll definitely go over with a beer or something (Jesus, _divorce_ ), but she sounds urgent and Travis doesn’t get the rush.

She tells him.

Travis drives to Wes’s new place in a blind panic—a _hotel_ , Wes has been living in a goddamned hotel for a week and a half and he didn’t say a word! He bounds up the stairs three at a time and skids down the hall, pounding on the door. Just as he’s about ready to kick the door in, it opens, and the relief he feels at seeing Wes, healthy and whole and _alive_ , is almost enough to make him sick.

“Travis?” Wes says, brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh thank god.” Travis’s heart still feels like it’s going to leap out of his chest. “You bastard. I can’t believe you did that!” Panic transmutes into anger, but it’s anger borne of adrenaline-pumping fear. He straightens, swings a punch at Wes’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Wes dances back from the not-so-friendly punch. “What? Travis, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a suicide, Wes!” Somehow, saying it aloud is different than hearing it from Alex. It makes it tangible, makes it _real_ , and Travis feels like he’s gonna be sick again.

Wes’s shoulders slump, face shuttering closed. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, _that_. Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ”

Wes steps back, gesturing Travis inside. “I am not having this conversation in the hall.” He waits until Travis has entered the room, waits until he pulls the door closed before sighing, crossing his arms. “Why should I have told you?”

“Why should you—because I’m your partner!” Travis whirls on him. “Because I should know if you’re gonna—” The words get caught in his throat, he can’t even get them out.

“Kill myself,” Wes finishes bluntly. “Those are the words you’re looking for. I’m going to kill myself. Oh, don’t look so alarmed, it’s not going to happen tonight.” 

Travis swallows, resisting the urge to grab Wes and just—never let go. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Wes sighs, shook his head. “What difference would that make?”

“What _difference?_ I’d _know!_ I could help you, I could stop it!”

Wes snorts, lips twisting wryly. “Stop it? Come on, you know better than that. Can’t fight what’s in the cards.” He sighs again, crossing the room and sinking onto the couch. “Look,” he says, rubbing his hand across his face. “I didn’t tell you because you can’t change it. No one can change it, that’s the way it works. I figured it’d save you a whole lot of worry.” He smiles, thin and bitter and it hurts to see such an expression. “And if you didn’t know, I wouldn’t have to see you looking like that.”

Travis has no idea what face he’s currently making. “Like what?”

“Like I’m fragile,” Wes says simply. “Like I’m about to break. Because I’m _not_ , Travis, I swear I’m not.”

“Jesus.” Travis crosses the room, falls into the couch beside Wes. “Jesus _Christ_ , Wes, you can’t—that’s not—”

Wes’s hand comes up, cool and grounding, and it’s wrong, that _Wes_ is the one comforting him at a time like this when it should be the other way around, god this is so wrong. This whole situation is fucked up, and for the first time Travis can understand where the anti-Machine protestors are coming from. It’s one thing to know how _he’s_ gonna go, and explosions are never _not_ going to be cool; it’s an entirely different thing to know how _Wes_ is going to go, and Travis isn’t okay with that at all.

“I’m okay,” Wes promises. “I swear, Trav. I’m not gonna do anything tonight.”

Travis latches onto that last word, head shooting up and eyes glaring daggers at Wes. “What the fuck does _that_ mean, _tonight?_ ”

The look Wes gives him is mildly exasperated. “It _means_ I am _fine_ —well, not _fine_ fine, I _did_ just get divorced—but I’m not so down I’m going to _do_ anything. _Tonight_.”

And, okay, yeah, if Wes is a suicide that means it’s going to happen _sometime_ , no matter how much Travis hates the thought. But it isn’t going to happen _tonight_ , and Travis clings to that.

He reaches out, grabbing Wes’s free hand (the other is still on the back of his neck and Travis won’t move it until he has to), and he says, “Let’s go out. Let’s go get drunk.”

Wes gives a little squeeze and says, “Yeah, that sounds good,” and if his eyes are sad and his grip a little tight, Travis won’t mention it.

\---

There was a woman, standing behind him in line, crying silently. Travis can barely remember her face; what he remembers most is her dress, a strapless dress, a sunny, bright blue with big yellow and green flowers on it. He remembers thinking that someone in such a pretty dress shouldn’t be so sad.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked her while Kaitlyn was arguing with Derrick about something or other. “Why are you crying?”

She’d looked at him, and that’s when he noticed the little piece of paper in her hands, the edges worn ragged from constant handling. Not paper, though. Cardstock.

“I’m sad,” she told him, and her voice sounded as sad as the tears falling from her eyes. “I keep hoping to get something different, and I keep coming back, but…” She chokes back a sob, squeezing her hands into fists, and the cardstock crumples in her palm.

Travis blinks at her and, with all the innocence of a child, asks, “Does it change? If you don’t like what you get?”

But she’s still crying, so he thinks he knows the answer.

The corners of her lips turn up, but her eyes stay sad, and she keeps crying as she says, “It never changes. No matter how many times I come back.”

That’s when Kaitlyn notices and drags him away, apologizing to the woman for his rudeness, which is probably a good thing because he doesn’t know what to say anyway.

\---

There has yet to be one proven case of the Machine being wrong.

\---

They’re pinned down by a cascade of bullets and they’re both running low on ammo and backup is on the way but it’ll be too little, too late. And he can see Wes gearing up to try something, to do something suicidally stupid, and it’s that one word, that _suicidal_ that makes him throw himself out of his cover, into the open path of dozen of bullets, which won’t surprise anyone because everyone and their mother knows _Travis_ is the one who takes all the suicidally stupid risks.

EXPLOSION, says the yellowed card in Travis’s wallet, and maybe this is how Travis is going to die, tiny explosions hurling lead bullets out the barrel of a dozen guns, but Travis doesn’t think about that. The only thing he can think about is Wes, and neat block letters spelling SUICIDE, and if they can’t go out together then he’d rather go out first so he doesn’t have to watch Wes do that to himself.

Half a dozen things die in his throat as the bullets rip through him, and Travis falls.

He blinks awake in a hospital room, drugged and woozy, but alive. He barely has time to process this before Wes is moving in, ranting and tearing him a new one with tears streaming down his cheeks, and Travis is oddly touched.

“Baby,” he slurs, waving feebly, “Babe, s’okay. ’m fine.”

“You are _not_ fine, Travis, you have four bullet wounds because you jumped into a firestorm what the _hell_ were you _thinking_ —!”

Lying is too complicated, but the drugs make it hard to stay silent, so Travis says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’ wanna watch you die.”

And that’s not quite right, not what he’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to point out how he’s gonna die in an explosion, so a few measly bullets aren’t gonna kill him, and besides, he’s gotta give the pretty nurses something to do with their time, right?

But that’s not what comes out. What comes out is the utterly painful, agonizing truth, and it stops Wes in his tracks. “What?” he gapes, hands frozen mid-gesture, and it’d be comical except Travis doesn’t feel particularly like laughing.

He sighs, snuggles into his pillow. “Don’ wanna watch you die, Wes. I don’ think I could take it.” Eyes closed to slits, he watches the blurry form of his partner and admits, “I’d rather go out first.”

Wes moves, stiff and jerky like he’s about to crack, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “You—” He swallows hard, takes a few great heaving breaths, and stumbles to the bedside chair. He doesn’t so much _sit_ as fall bonelessly onto the padded seat, and now that he’s this close, Travis can see his hands shaking.

“You fucking _idiot_ ,” Wes snaps without nearly the amount of rancor there should be. He grabs Travis’s hand, and if Travis weren’t on the good drugs right now Wes’s grip would probably hurt. “That’s not—you—” Another couple of breaths that sound too much like sobs for Travis’s liking.

He opens his mouth to try and console Wes, because even though Travis is the one in the hospital bed Wes seems like he needs it so much more, but Wes’s next sentence makes Travis’s words die in his throat.

“Did you ever think that maybe watching you die is what pushes me over the edge?” 

Travis’s eyes snap open. “What?” he says dumbly, struggling to sit up, and then, “Wes, no, you can’t—”

“Shut up, damn you,” Wes snarls, but his touch is gentle when he pushes Travis back down and he doesn’t let go of Travis’s hand. “Just shut up. You don’t get to say anything.” He gets Travis back down, rucks the blanket up to Travis’s chin, and squeezes Travis’s hand so hard Travis is pretty sure he can feel his bones grinding. “You need to stop doing this, because I can’t—Knowing how you’re going to die doesn’t make you _immortal_ , you bastard.”

Oh. Oh, wow, that’s…

“Kay,” Travis mumbles, letting his eyes drift shut. He attempts to give Wes’s hand a little squeeze, though he’s not certain how successful he is, since Wes’s is still crushing the life out of his fingers. “Okie-doke. Sorry, baby.”

It’s not enough, not nearly enough when Wes breaks, slumping over the bed. “You idiot,” he chokes, hot tears splashing onto the back of Travis’s hand. “You stupid fucking idiot.”

He just lays there, staring at the ceiling, and he wonders if this would feel less mind-blowing if he weren’t high as a kite right now.

Or maybe it would feel more. 

\---

This, he thinks later, once the morphine has cleared his system and he can think a little more clearly. This is important.

But he’s never been very good about this sort of thing, so he puts it off. There’ll be time later. 

\---

In his wallet, nestled behind his driver’s license, Travis has a small piece of cardstock. It’s yellowed with age, the edges worn soft and the letters faded to almost nothing, but it’s still legible.

Sometimes, when Travis is feeling particularly bored, he’ll pull it out and read those nine letters, staring at the card and flipping it in his hands.

Is there a power in knowing, he wonders, or is ignorance truly bliss? How would things change, if he didn’t know and had to live every moment on the tense edge of uncertainty?

Would anything actually change at all?

\---

(Sometimes, when he’s had a little too much to drink, when the day has been a little too long and terrible, Travis thinks that he’d really like to kiss Wes. Not even kissing leading to sex—hell, if it was just fucking, it would at least make sense.

No, Travis just wants to kiss Wes, and hold him close, reassure himself that they’re both still alive, still breathing for one more day.

He doesn’t do anything, because for all his brainless, idiotic recklessness, not even alcohol can give him the courage to cross that line. And in the cold, sober light of day, he doesn’t dare. There’s so much shit floating between them already, this could be the one thing that makes or breaks them, and Travis can’t bear to break them if he’s wrong.

They’ll get there, he tells himself. There’s no rush.

They have all the time in the world.)

\---

“I don’t believe this.” Travis shakes his head. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Williams!” Wes calls, peeking around the doorway. “Just come out peacefully! No one has to get hurt!”

“She took everything from me!” Roger Williams screams from the next room. Williams, the asshole with a pipe bomb strapped to his chest and a deadman switch in his hand, who’d taken his ex-wife, both of their divorce lawyers, and four bystanders hostage. “She took everything so I’m going to take everything from her!”

They’d managed to convince Williams to let the bystanders go, but that still leaves three people in there who are going to die if Wes and Travis can’t get them out. And, of course, there’s no line of sight from the next building to take Williams out the easy way. The deadman switch kind of puts a damper on that plan anyway. But if Travis and Wes don’t do something, people are going to die.

Die.

Oh _duh_.

“Hey lady!” Travis calls, “How are you going to die?”

Wes shoots him a _What the hell Travis?_ glower, but Travis makes his _Trust me man I got this_ face and Wes reluctantly settles.

The former Mrs. Williams is hyperventilating, loud enough for Travis to hear all the way over here. “Car accident! I’m going to die in a car accident!”

“Car accident, Williams!” Travis hollers, just in case Williams didn’t hear it the first time. “Not a bomb! Not her ex! A car accident! So why don’t you take the bomb off and we’ll all sit down and talk about this!”

Because the Machine is never wrong, so maybe a little logic will settle this whole thing.

Williams sobs, the sound of a broken man. “I can’t kill her, but I can hurt her!” he cries, and Travis’s gut twists. Okay. Logic didn’t work. This is a really not good. 

He pulls back, leans against the wall, and says—sarcastic to keep his fear from showing—“I really don’t think he’s coming in quietly.”

“Travis,” Wes hisses, and oh, no, he’s got his Resolved face on, which means Travis _really_ isn’t going to like what he’s about to hear. “Travis, get out of here.”

“The _fuck?_ ”

“Get out of here.” Wes swallows, trembling a little. “Just go. Get somewhere safe. I—I’ll take care of it.”

He glances over, and Travis—Travis has never seen that look on Wes’s face, but he _knows_ what it means, and this time the cold spike of fear that runs through him has _nothing_ to do with the man with the bomb in the next room.

“No.” It doesn’t even _sound_ like him, the tiny, terrified rasp that slips his throat. “Wes, _no_.”

“Suicide, Travis,” Wes says, like Travis doesn’t _know_ that, like he needs the reminder. “That—that just means I get to choose, right? That’s what you said. So let me choose this. Let me _save_ people, instead of—”

Instead of a gun in a dark room, or any of a dozen other nightmares Travis has conjured since he found out.

“Wes…”

“It’s okay.” Wes gives him a tremulous smile that’s not reassuring at _all_. “It’s okay, Travis.”

People react to the Machine’s predictions in different ways. Some people shut themselves down. Some people embrace it. Travis goes on and on about it until people wish he’d shut up, because he’s still a nine-year-old boy who thinks explosions are the coolest thing in the world.

Wes has probably been gearing up for his own death since he read those seven letters on a piece of cardstock, so long ago, preparing himself for the day he’d decide to end it all.

Taking out a man armed with a bomb is just a different kind of suicide.

“Wes,” he says again, voice breaking, and Wes just smiles and reaches out, brushing their fingers together, and his smile is sorrowful, heartbroken and all he says is, “Go, Travis,” and what can Travis do?

He goes.

\---

(It’s after Paekman’s funeral, after Wes has slurred out, “I’m gonna die alone, I’m gonna be alone in my head and them I’m gonna die,” and Travis is drunk and grieving and pissed at all the things he can’t change, the melancholy turns to anger and he snaps, “No you’re fucking not.”

And Wes frowns at him and blinks like a confused puppy and says, “What?”

“I won’t let you go out like that,” Travis says, waving his beer exuberantly. Wes’s face doesn’t clear up, so Travis clarifies. “Alone. I won’t let you die alone.”

Wes does not look reassured. If anything, his frown deepens. “I don’t think it quite works like that, Travis.”

He scoffs, because of _course_ Wes is going to be a negative nelly, Travis never expected anything less. “Sure it does. Look, suicide doesn’t—it just means it’s your choice, right? It doesn’t mean you’re gonna be _alone_. So you won’t be. We’ll go out together. I’ll share my explosion with you.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s genius and you know it.” He grins and takes a swig of his beer. He’s thought about this, and the logic is solid. “Besides, we all know how the Machine likes to play with words. It might not even be _your_ suicide that does you in.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Without even looking, Travis can hear the way Wes’s eyes roll right around his head.

He just grins smugly and tips his beer in a salute to both Paekman and his own amazing logic. “Damn straight I am.”)

\---

Travis makes it a grand total of five steps before he says, “Fuck that,” and turns around. “You know what else I said?” he snaps, sliding back into place beside Wes. “I said you weren’t gonna die alone. I’m not letting you steal my explosion.”

Wes’s face twists, like he’s about to start crying. Or screaming at him. “Travis…”

“Wes. Don’t make me watch you die.” He reaches out, clutches his partner’s hand. “The only way I’m leaving is if you come with me.”

Wes stares at him, face full of—god, so much emotion, because Wes always did show more than he thought. He opens his mouth—

“Cops! You got ten seconds to get out of here!” Williams hollers, and Wes’s mouth snaps shut. They make their decision at the same time; Travis squeezes Wes’s hand and lets go, and Wes’s jaw hardens with resolve.

Travis ducks a quick look around the doorway. “If I remember my bomb seminar at all, that kind of trigger has a three-second delay between release and detonation. Not a lot of time.”

“He’s standing in front of a wall of windows,” Wes points out, and that’s all he needs to say.

The plan forms between them, and they share a nod. Travis holds his fist out. Wes rolls his eyes, but for the first time ever he returns the fist bump.

Wes holds up three fingers. Two. One.

_I wish…_

Zero.

As one, they rush into the room.

\---

There are so many things he never got the chance to say. He always thought there’d be more time.

\---

They rush into the room, and William’s eyes go wide. Then his face hardens, eyes filled with hate and pain, and he releases the trigger.

Travis dashes across the room, Wes right at his side. He catches a glimpse of the ex and the lawyers, huddled against the wall, and then he’s past them and they’re converging on Williams.

_one one-thousand_

They tackle Williams simultaneously, momentum carrying them into the nearest window. The window is heavy-duty glass, but it can’t withstand the force of three grown men slamming into it. The glass buckles, then shatters outward, sending them flying into the air.

_two one-thousand_

As they fall, Wes catches his eye, and Travis aches because he recognizes every single emotion he sees, because they’re all things he’s felt at one point or another but he never did anything because he always thought there’d be more _time_ —

He reaches out, grasping, because just maybe—and Wes’s reaches for him—

_three one-thousand_

A blinding flash of light rips through the air.

\---

**Machine Of Death Predictions:**

Travis Marks: EXPLOSION

Wesley Mitchell: SUICIDE

Roger Williams: LETTING GO

\---

_LAPD DETECTIVES KILLED IN BOMBING_  
_In a stunning display of heroics, Detectives Wes Mitchell and Travis Marks lost their lives earlier today when a bomb detonated during a hostage situation…_

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an anthology called Machine Of Death in which there is a machine that predicts how a person is going to die based only on a drop of blood. I thought it was a super interesting concept and here we are.
> 
> I'm sorry.


End file.
